this link says it all
and don't forget to check out the related sites on that page as well, a big factor why i love bbc =)
mos of my tears tension and sweat were wrung out here, though, to close out my sunday afternoon *beams* i was especially active in the sets 3-5 entries, making some "friends" in the process, one of them a sampras fan and another a dutch girl who gave us blow by blow scores every freaking three seconds or so.
what a day!!!
*doc emer shared a wonderful photo of rafa's post-winning moment which i featured here
14.5.06
3.5.06
one foot in front of the other, over leaves and over bridges
more than a year has passed since i last ran laps around the oval at the sports centre. it was a time of starting an MA i can't bring myself to love, a time of getting pregnant with my second son and bringing him to the world in a miraculous VBAC delivery, a time of entering moments of calm and peace in my european adventure.
i've Never run cross-country. i've worn out a couple of cross trainers in my lifetime, too few to ever be considered a serious runner but still more than anyone with a sedentary lifestyle can ever have.
until today. batjay wrote about his brisk walking adventures in orange county over at blogkada and i tried to go the same route, only my way dove into the forest near the arenberg castle in heverlee just outside the ring of leuven, quiet in the middle of the morning under a gray sky. the track was muddy from the previous night's drizzle and i was afraid that any one of my footfalls would betray me and my ankle would crumple beneath me. in spite of the hush, spring's irrepressible energy was jumping from the tree branches and tiny yellow and white flowers growing wild on the forest floor.
more than one year of no physical exertion and my heart wanted to burst out of my chest. the football field next to alma 3 was a sea of undulating green grass, the goal posts reminding me fleetingly of the coming world cup on june 9th. (go brazil!!!)
i wanted to talk about moving on yet now that i'm seated in front of the computer screen, words fail me. words, the very things that define my career as an english teacher, the one thing i wield with confidence, yet they escape me now. right now, all i know about moving on is that sometimes, a rabbit has to run so that eagles will not take him for dinner. i can feel my whiskers twitching. i need to dive into my hole now.
happy birthday, andy.
i've Never run cross-country. i've worn out a couple of cross trainers in my lifetime, too few to ever be considered a serious runner but still more than anyone with a sedentary lifestyle can ever have.
until today. batjay wrote about his brisk walking adventures in orange county over at blogkada and i tried to go the same route, only my way dove into the forest near the arenberg castle in heverlee just outside the ring of leuven, quiet in the middle of the morning under a gray sky. the track was muddy from the previous night's drizzle and i was afraid that any one of my footfalls would betray me and my ankle would crumple beneath me. in spite of the hush, spring's irrepressible energy was jumping from the tree branches and tiny yellow and white flowers growing wild on the forest floor.
more than one year of no physical exertion and my heart wanted to burst out of my chest. the football field next to alma 3 was a sea of undulating green grass, the goal posts reminding me fleetingly of the coming world cup on june 9th. (go brazil!!!)
i wanted to talk about moving on yet now that i'm seated in front of the computer screen, words fail me. words, the very things that define my career as an english teacher, the one thing i wield with confidence, yet they escape me now. right now, all i know about moving on is that sometimes, a rabbit has to run so that eagles will not take him for dinner. i can feel my whiskers twitching. i need to dive into my hole now.
happy birthday, andy.
1.5.06
when poetry takes over
not only was langston hughes born in february, OUR month, but he wrote the following poem:
i remember reading this in my 7th grade textbook for language arts and i have never forgotten it since. the poem is light and gossamer, resting softly on my eyelids. when they flutter open, the poem vanishes, as did my friend.
then there is li po:
only this time my horse was on a modern platform in the middle of brussels and his steed was a red and silver train that would take him away from me yet again. how many times can one endure parting of this magnitude? i used to think that airports were the most lonely places in the world, especially when you were the one left behind. today i saw that beautiful modern train stations can be just as stark and lonely, if not more.
i had a friend:
he went away from me
there's nothing left to say
i had a friend:
i remember reading this in my 7th grade textbook for language arts and i have never forgotten it since. the poem is light and gossamer, resting softly on my eyelids. when they flutter open, the poem vanishes, as did my friend.
then there is li po:
Blue mountains lie beyond the north wall;
Round the city's eastern side flows the white water.
Here we part, friend, once forever.
You go ten thousand miles, drifting away
Like an unrooted water-grass.
Oh, the floating clouds and the thoughts of a wanderer!
Oh, the sunset and the longing of an old friend!
We ride away from each other, waving our hands,
While our horses neigh softly, softly . . . .
only this time my horse was on a modern platform in the middle of brussels and his steed was a red and silver train that would take him away from me yet again. how many times can one endure parting of this magnitude? i used to think that airports were the most lonely places in the world, especially when you were the one left behind. today i saw that beautiful modern train stations can be just as stark and lonely, if not more.
7.4.06
Mysteries of Palm Sunday
the following entry was written for our parish bulletin ... just wanted to share it with you here... svelte rogue
Back in the Philippines, Palm Sunday was time for me to play “The King of Glory” on the organ and watch the throngs of mass-goers wave their intricate palm fronds that the priest walked blessed with holy water. Palm Sunday signalled the start of an arduous week of one service after another that required choir participation, from the washing of the feet on Maundy Thursday; to the Stations of the Cross through village streets baking in the summer heat culminating at 3 PM in the church and the ensuing Veneration of the Cross ceremony; to the Sinakulo (or Cenaculo) performance of the Passion in the evening that ended at midnight; to the rise-sit-kneel of the endless readings of Black Saturday; to the fireball lighting up a pile of twigs to begin the Easter dawn celebrations; the Salubong (Tagalog, which means “Meeting” to refer to Jesus & Mary’s meeting on Easter morning) with matching angels singing a Latin hymn when the processions of Mama Mary and Son Jesus statues meet; until the elaborate Easter Eucharist with the dialogue gospel, renunciation of sin (I do I do and I do!), and renewal of Christian vows (I do yet again I do and I do!). Sitting on my comfortable perch at the organ with my motley crew of singers, images of the coming Holy Week were crystallised most clearly at the start of the gloomy Holy Week.
For some, it also meant counting the remaining days before they could hie off to the beach or highlands for some summer action, since most work ends on Wednesday to give people time to travel to the provinces, presumably to be with family to attend the Holy Week services. But for many Manila folk, this is a great opportunity to travel to vacation spots for a relaxing 4-day weekend of endless card games and booze.
The past two years, though, have found me and my family in Belgium, away from the searing summer Philippine heat. I realise bemusedly that a trip to the beach is wholly possible except that the North Sea off Oostende will be more chilly than I am used to. I see many similarities between the weekend Manila beach bums and almost all of Belgians planning activities for their family during the two-week Paasvakantie.
It has gotten to such a point that in any part of the Christian world I may be, whether in Asia or Europe, Palm Sunday signals the beginning of good times and fun.
Yet the gospels paint a different picture of this tumultuous day in Christian history. On this day, the unassuming Messiah rode into Jerusalem on a donkey and was greeted by waving palm fronds, the sum total of his kingship, kingdom, and people. Here was a glad entourage greeting their homely king, welcoming him into the heart of a city that would turn against him in the coming days, where the leaders of their faith would condemn him to the death sentence reserved for the worst criminals of the Roman estate.
One can point out that this would be the last day of glory and “fun” for Jesus before trekking the painful path of the Passion that lay before him still. How could his human self not have quailed at the thought of the suffering that could break anyone’s spirit?
Today, it is easy for us to approach Palm Sunday with the thought that even if Jesus did enter Jerusalem on this day filled with dread and trepidation, he would eventually come into his paradise, with the hopeful thief on the cross next to him, along with the cries and hopes of the oppressed, downtrodden and sad lives of a cruel world. We always rest secure in the knowledge that after the Passion lies the birth of new life, of Love reborn, of salvation forever within our grasp by the blood of his sacrifice.
Today I wake up to a Palm Sunday with more questions than answers, befuddled and confused as to what stance I must take in order to prepare meaningfully for the coming days. I am torn several ways, both familiar and not, between the rites and rituals of my past experiences, of someone rooted in a deeply Christian culture, of someone who was born in a country where every day one encounters Christ’s Passion in the suffering faces of my co-Filipinos, of someone transplanted into another culture where this same suffering has been cocooned into the colourful easter eggs and marzipan packs found in shops.
I pray that for those of us gathered together on this special morn, the steady footfalls of donkey steps form the rhythmic backdrop of what is still to come --- a taste of pain and suffering that can only end in love and eternal life.
28.3.06
my cup overfloweth
i remember how i used to stare at your older brother while he slept and it's as if the world inside of me would explode through my chest.
i don't remember the day you smiled at me for the first time, the kind of smile that wasn't just gas or a guardian angel chat. i made you smile and you made me feel like the most beautiful person in the world, lighting up your world. and in your eyes, the world was everything. and i was at the center of it.
how many times have i used your helplessness as an excuse not to get up, just so i can feel your body against mine, pliant and trusting in my arms, your warmth bringing sweet lassitude into my limbs? i have often prayed that you stay little and angelic forever, my perfect doll.
when your kuya embraces you, soothes away your tears, scolds me for kissing you too much, i am in a place filled with light and joy. those are moments when god leans over and winks at me, as if saying, "ain't life great?"
i live for a thousand and one moments, and they all contain you, kimi, and your kuya mikka. i will not survive if each time you smile at me, or your kuya is overwhelmingly sweet, is counted as nitroglycerine in the cutest purple bottle.
i don't remember the day you smiled at me for the first time, the kind of smile that wasn't just gas or a guardian angel chat. i made you smile and you made me feel like the most beautiful person in the world, lighting up your world. and in your eyes, the world was everything. and i was at the center of it.
how many times have i used your helplessness as an excuse not to get up, just so i can feel your body against mine, pliant and trusting in my arms, your warmth bringing sweet lassitude into my limbs? i have often prayed that you stay little and angelic forever, my perfect doll.
when your kuya embraces you, soothes away your tears, scolds me for kissing you too much, i am in a place filled with light and joy. those are moments when god leans over and winks at me, as if saying, "ain't life great?"
i live for a thousand and one moments, and they all contain you, kimi, and your kuya mikka. i will not survive if each time you smile at me, or your kuya is overwhelmingly sweet, is counted as nitroglycerine in the cutest purple bottle.
8.3.06
1.3.06
the poor you have always
this topic is too close to my heart not to push to the forefront of my internet splashes.
i don't normally announce when i've written articles elsewhere in the net, but this time, i'd like to send you over to blogkada to read what i and the other berks have written about poverty
(if you want to see the entire site and entries, click here)
of course i'm working with the premise that you are with me here. i've been getting more hits at multiply; maybe that's where i should announce this. pero hindi bagay don kaya dito na lang. hahaha
i don't normally announce when i've written articles elsewhere in the net, but this time, i'd like to send you over to blogkada to read what i and the other berks have written about poverty
(if you want to see the entire site and entries, click here)
of course i'm working with the premise that you are with me here. i've been getting more hits at multiply; maybe that's where i should announce this. pero hindi bagay don kaya dito na lang. hahaha
27.2.06
litterbug
on a good day you can look at this and feel both wonder and some smugness --- give yourself a pat on the back while you sip iced tea and generally just feel what a work of art you are. or you can puzzle over the shadow puppets you've cast on the wall of cyber and real friendships --- which ones are real and which ones are mere projections frozen on the wall?
on a not so good day you can feel the sniffles coming on and the lack of sunlight casts a ghostly light on faces you pass on the street and shadows threaten in every corner of your sanctuary.
on a rotten day the kitchen light conspires against you, door handles snag on sore hips, the innocent chortle of hyperactive toddlers and desperately hungry cries of infants are indictments of your worst maternal fears and insecurities and you just want to call up your dad and blame him for all the shit hitting the fan.
have you seen those swirly colourful circles on lollipops, the kind that spins round and round so you are that dot in the centre that disappears the more mad the dance becomes? i could cross my legs in my comfy corner, adjust the glare of my table lamp and just let the tears slide down my cheeks and not feel at all connected to my heaving shoulders.
there has to be a case for a trash bin you can put at the foot of your chair, just because. then you won't have to bump into people or food along the way as hapless substitutes.
your honour, i rest my case.
on a not so good day you can feel the sniffles coming on and the lack of sunlight casts a ghostly light on faces you pass on the street and shadows threaten in every corner of your sanctuary.
on a rotten day the kitchen light conspires against you, door handles snag on sore hips, the innocent chortle of hyperactive toddlers and desperately hungry cries of infants are indictments of your worst maternal fears and insecurities and you just want to call up your dad and blame him for all the shit hitting the fan.
have you seen those swirly colourful circles on lollipops, the kind that spins round and round so you are that dot in the centre that disappears the more mad the dance becomes? i could cross my legs in my comfy corner, adjust the glare of my table lamp and just let the tears slide down my cheeks and not feel at all connected to my heaving shoulders.
there has to be a case for a trash bin you can put at the foot of your chair, just because. then you won't have to bump into people or food along the way as hapless substitutes.
your honour, i rest my case.
26.2.06
omigaz
this site has been so neglected... by you!
but with one stop shops like multiply around, sites like these are merely redundant. and i am too lazy to consolidate photobucket with this. it's too much work.
i haven't the energy to find ways to woo you back to me. like the perfect partner, you will just come. i'll see you...
but with one stop shops like multiply around, sites like these are merely redundant. and i am too lazy to consolidate photobucket with this. it's too much work.
i haven't the energy to find ways to woo you back to me. like the perfect partner, you will just come. i'll see you...
16.2.06
fearfully and wonderfully made
they fit perfectly in your arms, curves melting against your body, seeping into your bones your blood your heart
their eyes follow your every move, unblinking, steadily counting each minute you are with them as a singular chunk of eternity
you are their everything which in itself is scary --- such trust, such responsibility foisted upon you --- can you last?
they are miniscule expressions of enduring love and hope
their skin, their eyes, their voices, their small tiny hands and feet, their rotund bellies --- seen on anyone over 12 it is grotesque but in their onesies and rompers they are the cutest beings alive
when they coo and gurgle you know that no matter how you've screwed up in life, you can still make the most innocent and pure being happy
how simple are their ways their needs their lives --- why can't we stay little?
babies are special beings and my god, thank you for giving me another one to love and to raise! it's no walk in the park but after the first one, things don't look too difficult or daunting anymore. before i know it, my little kimi will be as big as his kuya mikka and i will wonder how time could fly so swiftly past.
their eyes follow your every move, unblinking, steadily counting each minute you are with them as a singular chunk of eternity
you are their everything which in itself is scary --- such trust, such responsibility foisted upon you --- can you last?
they are miniscule expressions of enduring love and hope
their skin, their eyes, their voices, their small tiny hands and feet, their rotund bellies --- seen on anyone over 12 it is grotesque but in their onesies and rompers they are the cutest beings alive
when they coo and gurgle you know that no matter how you've screwed up in life, you can still make the most innocent and pure being happy
how simple are their ways their needs their lives --- why can't we stay little?
babies are special beings and my god, thank you for giving me another one to love and to raise! it's no walk in the park but after the first one, things don't look too difficult or daunting anymore. before i know it, my little kimi will be as big as his kuya mikka and i will wonder how time could fly so swiftly past.
31.1.06
finding a way
i just finished penning some thoughts to the venerable blogkada, that trusty egroups where serendipitously, you can breathe zen, joy, dreams, and secrets into a pool of unquestioning love. it's a happy happy circumstance that brought me into that group of bloggers and sometimes i am a bit embarrassed to be considered one of them because i no longer consider myself a hardcore blogger. that's a thing of the distant past, it seems. i remember having another URL in another lifetime and i know i have a zipped file with all my old entries but it feels like an old, discarded skin. but skin that you can fold lovingly into the most special corner of your closet and maybe one day, pull out once more and smooth lovingly in the soft rays of filtered sunshine making dust specks dance before your eyes.
i wanted to entitle my entry "finding forrester", just like that movie with jamal and william forrester (oh sean connery, you are too cute it's such a drag!!!). i know i mentioned this to blogkada some minutes ago and i feel the need to talk more about it in this more loose and public space. somehow.
photos arrived in my email inbox 11 hours ago and upon seeing them, i don't know, that movie moment happened. breath became suspended involuntarily, eyes misted over and thoughts started to move sluggishly, as if someone had poured a vat of molasses over everything. escape evaded me no matter how much the mind commanded me to shut the door and continue along my little mary sunshine way. of course we know that in life, things do not always turn out the way we want them to.
then i thought, i don't want to end up on google search for that same movie (not that i check my stats anyway, that, too, is a thing of the distant past --- but thank you to my loyal visitors who keep the stats alive no matter what) and thought, let's put a little spin to it, for wit and quick recall. but the alternative was too cheesy, too tacky, dicey. finding family? not again. i've been going on and on about that topic in the past entries and if by some wild chance my older brother or sister bumps into this blog (if blogs could live for a million years, and we, too, why, nothing is impossible), they will be bound to arch their coiffed eyebrows at me and flutter, "self-absorbed lara is at it again, whining about her life. grow up, when will you ever grow up?" ayayay. no na lang. hence, a weak attempt to be general and specific and literary, all experiments in futility.
in that movie, jamal felt that at the moment that he needed forrester's help the most, forrester folded and didn't come through for him. their relationship had deepend beyond words, and both were talented writers. words words words. these will be with me for always. jamal poured out his heart to forrester in one last letter. or so he thought. it was the letter that pushed forrester to go out on a limb for his young ward, friend, son, and brother.
we grow up with family, he said. true enough. don't we all? barring orphans and adopted children, this is par for the course.
then we come to a point in our lives when we make family for ourselves, where we choose to be with people we love and wish to be family for us for all time. ties go beyond blood and name affiliations.
oh i don't know. that caught at me. but suddenly fatigue presses heavily and my fingers can move no more.
kimi will be baptised on the 12th of february. the prospect is joy-filled. in the midst of winter, life will be celebrated. can a child be more perfect than your own? they are wonderfully and fearfully made, fitting in the fold of your arms, warm against your bosom. they are helpless in your love, dependent on your attention and support. life affirming and pure grace.
i find i can go on no more. i shall have to focus better with my entry for blogkada. we're talking about beginnings now. my entry is due to come out on my birthday. right, jay? if not, it's okay.
happy birthday to me. nog niet. vrijdag. tata.
i wanted to entitle my entry "finding forrester", just like that movie with jamal and william forrester (oh sean connery, you are too cute it's such a drag!!!). i know i mentioned this to blogkada some minutes ago and i feel the need to talk more about it in this more loose and public space. somehow.
photos arrived in my email inbox 11 hours ago and upon seeing them, i don't know, that movie moment happened. breath became suspended involuntarily, eyes misted over and thoughts started to move sluggishly, as if someone had poured a vat of molasses over everything. escape evaded me no matter how much the mind commanded me to shut the door and continue along my little mary sunshine way. of course we know that in life, things do not always turn out the way we want them to.
then i thought, i don't want to end up on google search for that same movie (not that i check my stats anyway, that, too, is a thing of the distant past --- but thank you to my loyal visitors who keep the stats alive no matter what) and thought, let's put a little spin to it, for wit and quick recall. but the alternative was too cheesy, too tacky, dicey. finding family? not again. i've been going on and on about that topic in the past entries and if by some wild chance my older brother or sister bumps into this blog (if blogs could live for a million years, and we, too, why, nothing is impossible), they will be bound to arch their coiffed eyebrows at me and flutter, "self-absorbed lara is at it again, whining about her life. grow up, when will you ever grow up?" ayayay. no na lang. hence, a weak attempt to be general and specific and literary, all experiments in futility.
in that movie, jamal felt that at the moment that he needed forrester's help the most, forrester folded and didn't come through for him. their relationship had deepend beyond words, and both were talented writers. words words words. these will be with me for always. jamal poured out his heart to forrester in one last letter. or so he thought. it was the letter that pushed forrester to go out on a limb for his young ward, friend, son, and brother.
we grow up with family, he said. true enough. don't we all? barring orphans and adopted children, this is par for the course.
then we come to a point in our lives when we make family for ourselves, where we choose to be with people we love and wish to be family for us for all time. ties go beyond blood and name affiliations.
oh i don't know. that caught at me. but suddenly fatigue presses heavily and my fingers can move no more.
kimi will be baptised on the 12th of february. the prospect is joy-filled. in the midst of winter, life will be celebrated. can a child be more perfect than your own? they are wonderfully and fearfully made, fitting in the fold of your arms, warm against your bosom. they are helpless in your love, dependent on your attention and support. life affirming and pure grace.
i find i can go on no more. i shall have to focus better with my entry for blogkada. we're talking about beginnings now. my entry is due to come out on my birthday. right, jay? if not, it's okay.
happy birthday to me. nog niet. vrijdag. tata.
18.1.06
i guess not
i prayed last night.
there is still hurt. anger. a sense of loss and betrayal. i can't help but give in to the insidious arguments that can undermine one's self-esteem. there is abandonment. loneliness.
then i realise, after all these years, in spite of our having lived under one roof, that with the weight and magnitude of their hatred in their letters to me, that... they never really loved me.
so many factors come into play but that truth stands out starkly against the melancholia of my present thoughts and feelings.
ganon pala ang pakiramdam, ano, when one comes to such a realisation. it sits quietly and solidly in one's gut and i wonder how i could have missed it all this time but always known about it.
i'm spinning in twilight zone right now.
ps: thanks, hannahlou, for that sweet sweet email...
there is still hurt. anger. a sense of loss and betrayal. i can't help but give in to the insidious arguments that can undermine one's self-esteem. there is abandonment. loneliness.
then i realise, after all these years, in spite of our having lived under one roof, that with the weight and magnitude of their hatred in their letters to me, that... they never really loved me.
so many factors come into play but that truth stands out starkly against the melancholia of my present thoughts and feelings.
ganon pala ang pakiramdam, ano, when one comes to such a realisation. it sits quietly and solidly in one's gut and i wonder how i could have missed it all this time but always known about it.
i'm spinning in twilight zone right now.
ps: thanks, hannahlou, for that sweet sweet email...
5.1.06
when you can smile at these
when you're young and you fall in love and then out of it, you swear you'll never live through the shock of pain hurt and betrayal.
when you're young you are infallible, unbeatable, invincible. nothing gets you down. life is to be conquered, no party is too wild, no drink too deep, no man too tame.
when you're young you are the most beautiful girl at the ball, the smartest chick, the coolest gal, the hippest bitch. nothing, no one, can get you down. let them try.
then one day you wake up and look through the clear glass of your apartment window and the gray skies greet you solemnly and you can't help but smile at the slew of memories that march across the overcast palette of hidden sky.
how has it come to this, that one can miss the flings of her younger years? those very same flings that rocked the foundations of all you held dear, that threatened the very fabric of your most precious existence? can it be possible to become lost in the songs that defined that irresponsible moment of foolish discovery and feel a soft longing for the cast of that story? a tale shakespeare could have himself crafted in his most perfect play, "othello", a story of greed, jealousy, lust, and the earth-shaking depths of love. as boy and girl sing in "moulin rouge", i believe in love above all, come what may, i will love you until my dying day...
i never gave it much thought, but he did love the beatles. the simple strains of "why (s)he had to go i don't know, (s)he wouldn't stay. i said something wrong how i long for yesterday..." stand the test of time, sitting collectedly among the greatest songs of all time, not just the previous century. the george harrison songs i love bring back sun-kissed beaches in mindanao when i still had a 24-inch waist and graceful flexible limbs that allowed me to float above my students' wide-eyed faces while dancing "here comes the sun" at our farewell party, or to stare at the crystal clear skies studded with a million stars, exchanging warm caresses with a boyfriend who would someday beat up his wife and leave her, a mere shadow of his former cute self, ugly, drawn, haggard, and weary with life. but the hint of a smile on my jaded lips will always hearken back to that golden time when the night wind cloaked my love in its secret folds and took me anywhere everywhere my searching questing heart yearned to go.
you can only smile at the past tragedies, the past loves, the past shadows, when you have found your own very special place in the world. until you have found your niche in the order of things, the past will be nothing but ghosts that haunt you endlessly until you have buried them in their proper places with a secure, peace-filled present. maybe that's why it took me a long time to settle down, i was too curious, too adventurous, too full of (unnecessary) questions (at times)... the one time (was it only one?) i nearly lost it all was enough to put the fear of god in my heart forever and vow NEVER ever to hurt my one true thing, the one person who means the world to me, the one person who is the One for me in this life and beyond.
if there is a tale of true love for me, it is one with the streamer above the entrance of a yellow brick road: "the road to hell is paved with good intentions". the road dives into dark woods filled with dangerous bandits and intoxicating hideaways then explodes onto golden beaches of wanton sun-tipped waves before alighting gently on fields of gold (of course sting is there to greet me at life's end) where nothing can hurt me anymore, not the traumas and stigmas of past experiences that are best left in the wooden chests of memories.
i cannot exchange my life for a more innocent one, for a more idyllic one. this present one, with all the nightmares and joys, has been tailor-made for me, though i may not have seen it at the time. am i being fatalistic? not at all. i am a firm believer in free will, i am no puppet that acts out the designs of a sadistic higher force. i am a child of the universe, born out of and in love, thrown into the tumultuous pot of self-discovery the hard way, but always, always, holding the cinnamon bottle of love tightly in my hands, so much so that it is part and parcel of who i am and always will be.
Now another wintertime has come and gone
The pigeons feeding in the square have flown
But I remember when the vespers chime
You loved me once upon a summertime...
when you're young you are infallible, unbeatable, invincible. nothing gets you down. life is to be conquered, no party is too wild, no drink too deep, no man too tame.
when you're young you are the most beautiful girl at the ball, the smartest chick, the coolest gal, the hippest bitch. nothing, no one, can get you down. let them try.
then one day you wake up and look through the clear glass of your apartment window and the gray skies greet you solemnly and you can't help but smile at the slew of memories that march across the overcast palette of hidden sky.
how has it come to this, that one can miss the flings of her younger years? those very same flings that rocked the foundations of all you held dear, that threatened the very fabric of your most precious existence? can it be possible to become lost in the songs that defined that irresponsible moment of foolish discovery and feel a soft longing for the cast of that story? a tale shakespeare could have himself crafted in his most perfect play, "othello", a story of greed, jealousy, lust, and the earth-shaking depths of love. as boy and girl sing in "moulin rouge", i believe in love above all, come what may, i will love you until my dying day...
i never gave it much thought, but he did love the beatles. the simple strains of "why (s)he had to go i don't know, (s)he wouldn't stay. i said something wrong how i long for yesterday..." stand the test of time, sitting collectedly among the greatest songs of all time, not just the previous century. the george harrison songs i love bring back sun-kissed beaches in mindanao when i still had a 24-inch waist and graceful flexible limbs that allowed me to float above my students' wide-eyed faces while dancing "here comes the sun" at our farewell party, or to stare at the crystal clear skies studded with a million stars, exchanging warm caresses with a boyfriend who would someday beat up his wife and leave her, a mere shadow of his former cute self, ugly, drawn, haggard, and weary with life. but the hint of a smile on my jaded lips will always hearken back to that golden time when the night wind cloaked my love in its secret folds and took me anywhere everywhere my searching questing heart yearned to go.
you can only smile at the past tragedies, the past loves, the past shadows, when you have found your own very special place in the world. until you have found your niche in the order of things, the past will be nothing but ghosts that haunt you endlessly until you have buried them in their proper places with a secure, peace-filled present. maybe that's why it took me a long time to settle down, i was too curious, too adventurous, too full of (unnecessary) questions (at times)... the one time (was it only one?) i nearly lost it all was enough to put the fear of god in my heart forever and vow NEVER ever to hurt my one true thing, the one person who means the world to me, the one person who is the One for me in this life and beyond.
if there is a tale of true love for me, it is one with the streamer above the entrance of a yellow brick road: "the road to hell is paved with good intentions". the road dives into dark woods filled with dangerous bandits and intoxicating hideaways then explodes onto golden beaches of wanton sun-tipped waves before alighting gently on fields of gold (of course sting is there to greet me at life's end) where nothing can hurt me anymore, not the traumas and stigmas of past experiences that are best left in the wooden chests of memories.
i cannot exchange my life for a more innocent one, for a more idyllic one. this present one, with all the nightmares and joys, has been tailor-made for me, though i may not have seen it at the time. am i being fatalistic? not at all. i am a firm believer in free will, i am no puppet that acts out the designs of a sadistic higher force. i am a child of the universe, born out of and in love, thrown into the tumultuous pot of self-discovery the hard way, but always, always, holding the cinnamon bottle of love tightly in my hands, so much so that it is part and parcel of who i am and always will be.
Now another wintertime has come and gone
The pigeons feeding in the square have flown
But I remember when the vespers chime
You loved me once upon a summertime...
4.1.06
postpartum views
after having kimi, i realise that the depression i suffered after my first pregnancy was connected to the actual mode of delivery. the CS of mikka left me feeling grossly betrayed by my doctor then. if any of you ever have a doctor named GRANADOS who holds clinic at cardinal santos memorial hospital in greenhills, and also at the swank ayala alabang medical center, stay clear of her. she is no doubt a nice person, she is very dignified and pretty, but she will not refund your philhealth and she will opt for an emergency CS even if you don't need it. i Know. i went through that with her.
she betrayed me. she knew that at all costs, i didn't want a CS yet she cut up my belly. and i spilled tears over mikka in the succeeding weeks. i was the most athletic child in my family, i was an active pregnant mom, swimming three times a week until my 32nd week, and i was athlete of the year at our university sportsfest. then this happened. i was an invalid for 6 weeks, hobbling around with a huge bandage covering the ghastly smile just above my crotch. i couldn't lift mikka at all, not even to feed him. i had to wait for someone to bring him to me. i couldn't do any exercises until the doctor had declared my muscles completely healed. i had to wait at least 2 years before conceiving again if i wanted a shot at normal delivery.
all this crushed me. no aikido. no swimming. no running.
when kimi was still in my tummy, i worried about being alone in a cold country, on my own, no yayas, no family nearby. kimi's been out for more than a week and i am still basking in the glow of his miraculous birth, the wonderful timing of his coming into the world... i am content, filled with peace, happy. if i have cried in the past few days, it's been out of petty frustrations like not being able to fix the room of the boys to look like a real boy's room. S took me to a shop earlier today and the sales have begun... we were able to purchase some maternity stuff for me which i have long hankered for and this helped dispel some of my crankiness. so nothing lasting there, no dark cloud of depression despite the biting cold. we even had to dive into a café so i could breastfeed kimi who was bawling in hunger. he even had kaka in his nappy which i changed right on the seat of the resto.
no depression for me this time, even if the same people who ignored mikka are steadfastly ignoring me now. i don't need their affirmation anymore. i guess you can say i am a much more secure lara now than i was years ago, when cretinous siblings ignored me and prioritised their friends and other family over me and left me feeling rejected. i can still remember bea chiding me gently and not so gently about this: "lara, stop tying your sense of worth to these people!!! you are lovely in your own special way and you don't need them!" bea dear, you are so right. today, i am surrounded by wonderful friends here in leuven and brussels, cyber friends are completely great (the berks top the list of course!), and real friends and family never fail to come through in momentous occasions like these.
i am now excitedly looking forward to kimi's christening this coming february. it's going to be a double celebration since i'll be celebrating my 35th birthday then. so much to be thankful and happy for in this life! :)
here's my feeling madonna moment with my son kimi...
she betrayed me. she knew that at all costs, i didn't want a CS yet she cut up my belly. and i spilled tears over mikka in the succeeding weeks. i was the most athletic child in my family, i was an active pregnant mom, swimming three times a week until my 32nd week, and i was athlete of the year at our university sportsfest. then this happened. i was an invalid for 6 weeks, hobbling around with a huge bandage covering the ghastly smile just above my crotch. i couldn't lift mikka at all, not even to feed him. i had to wait for someone to bring him to me. i couldn't do any exercises until the doctor had declared my muscles completely healed. i had to wait at least 2 years before conceiving again if i wanted a shot at normal delivery.
all this crushed me. no aikido. no swimming. no running.
when kimi was still in my tummy, i worried about being alone in a cold country, on my own, no yayas, no family nearby. kimi's been out for more than a week and i am still basking in the glow of his miraculous birth, the wonderful timing of his coming into the world... i am content, filled with peace, happy. if i have cried in the past few days, it's been out of petty frustrations like not being able to fix the room of the boys to look like a real boy's room. S took me to a shop earlier today and the sales have begun... we were able to purchase some maternity stuff for me which i have long hankered for and this helped dispel some of my crankiness. so nothing lasting there, no dark cloud of depression despite the biting cold. we even had to dive into a café so i could breastfeed kimi who was bawling in hunger. he even had kaka in his nappy which i changed right on the seat of the resto.
no depression for me this time, even if the same people who ignored mikka are steadfastly ignoring me now. i don't need their affirmation anymore. i guess you can say i am a much more secure lara now than i was years ago, when cretinous siblings ignored me and prioritised their friends and other family over me and left me feeling rejected. i can still remember bea chiding me gently and not so gently about this: "lara, stop tying your sense of worth to these people!!! you are lovely in your own special way and you don't need them!" bea dear, you are so right. today, i am surrounded by wonderful friends here in leuven and brussels, cyber friends are completely great (the berks top the list of course!), and real friends and family never fail to come through in momentous occasions like these.
i am now excitedly looking forward to kimi's christening this coming february. it's going to be a double celebration since i'll be celebrating my 35th birthday then. so much to be thankful and happy for in this life! :)
here's my feeling madonna moment with my son kimi...
31.12.05
both sides of the divide
if you were free of all medical constraints and could opt for any kind of birth you wanted, which would you choose? a cesarean section delivery or a normal vaginal birth delivery? most women will opt for the latter but there are women who will opt for the former in spite of its being a major surgery with longer healing time.
perhaps i am not asking the right question here. after all, i am not trying to introduce some kind of debate on the pro's and con's of one type of delivery over the other; i think it is pretty much obvious that if no complications ever existed in the world, no one would think of a cesarean section anyway. but i discount here the kind of woman who does not wish to experience the excruciating vaginal tearing brought on by the relentless pushing of the child down the birth canal, or an episiotomy, and think that the smiley cut on the lower part of the abdomen is the "less evil cut", as it were.
perhaps what i want to ask is, after you have experienced both kinds of deliveries, what can possibly go through your mind and heart following such experiences?
so i zone in on my own personal experiences once again and have realised that in the 5 days of my confinement at the hospital on the hill (whih is barely a 10 minute walk away from our apartment), not only can thoughts flood my mind on the differences of the two methods of delivery, but a swell of emotions as well. i can honestly say that having experienced both kinds of pain associated with each type of delivery, there is a particular pain associated with each, i daresay, and that in the balance, i would still opt for a particular kind of delivery, because of the pain that it can bring. [ano daw? shet, ang labo non a]
i have never wanted to have my abdomen cut. i always had this feeling deep in my gut that my first doctor, the one who had delivered mikka by emergency CS, had not tried out all possible options to bring mikka into the world normally. this intuition was borne out, at last, when i delivered mikka's baby brother, our christmas gift, kimi jesu, at 12:05 pm (just 5 minutes past midday!) last december 25th. you could say that he had arrived on the dot, on schedule, just as projected. just like the christ child whose coming was heralded by angel song and wondrous starlight. it was the same experience of contractions, of waiting out the slow hours for my cervix to dilate, with kimi that i had undergone with mikka. the one big difference was that with kimi, i was wide awake, with only my abdominal area numbed by the pain of the successive contractions by the greatest technological advance in child delivery, the epidural. i will swear by the wonders of this local anaesthesia until the day i die, and if given the chance to promote its use, will do so over and over again. thus, being wide awake, i was aware of everything happening, even feeling when kimi was ready to come, every contraction that told me when to push, and all the attendant tearing that came from pushing out a 3 kilo and 590 gram (nearly 8 lbs) 40-week old baby boy.
there was a rush of blood and something warm when i finally pushed the head out, my knees spread out at 180°, my entire body open to the world. then there he was, blood matted in his hair, slight down on his shoulders, his face pink, his arms and legs wrinkled like an old man's, breathing atop my belly. my first words? "you are the biggest thing i have ever shitted out..." there was a slight pause and expressions of bewilderment on the faces of S, the doctor, and midwife before they all burst into laughter. now why the hell i said that eludes me, really, for i am not a logical person. i remember an ex asking me to close my eyes while he slipped what seemed to be a wedding band on my finger, inscribed with the words, "always remember" on the eve of his departure for new york for university, and my first words of surprise being, "a wedding ring? what for? it's so loose!" if magic was meant to define that moment, then we know why he and i never worked things out, i just didn't have the proper cue words for the angels to tip over their buckets of stardust on that moment of love and commitment.
so back to my kimi... when all the shock and trauma and fatigue of waiting and pushing had passed, all that remained was a sense of wonder and awe. always and forever with me, i believe. thank you, i whispered tremulously to my God, for letting this happen. i knew i could do it the normal way, a tiny voice kept singing over and over in my heart. there kimi lay, breathing on my belly while S prepared to cut his umbilical cord with the help of the midwife (who was wearing this nose stud, and dem, was she pretty). nature is amazing, S smiled at me. my uterus started descending, and when kimi first suckled at my breast, it started to contract. 4 days after delivery, my roommate janet, this sweet woman from england who had given birth to a beautiful blonde baby girl, matilda, told me, "you look very slim already! your belly has gotten very small so quickly." perhaps i had taken this phenomenon for granted, because i had breastfed mikka, too, and his constant suckling made my uterus contract in a week's time. by the time i was released from the hospital yesterday, kimi had taken in all the colostrum meant for him and was already controlling the ducts of my breasts with his hunger cycle. it hurts, that initial suckle from a hungry newborn, but something i will never exchange for anything in the world.
if anything, breast milk is my one great gift to mikka and kimi, to have given them something that will be with them for the rest of their lives. with my milk, i hope to free them from the usual illnesses of infancy that formula milk cannot shield them from, i hope to help them in developing their digestive and respiratory systems so that their toilet training goes smoothly and they need not suffer from primary complexes or baby asthma... also, the bond between myself and my sons is irreplaceable. even if i were the stinkiest mama this part of the universe, there is at least one person (now two in my case) who will know my odour instinctively, who can find me on the darkest night by smell alone, and be reassured by the presence of that smell, be it stink or offal. hehehe i couldn't help it...
i see that little face pressed against my breast at least 8 times a day, and am able to monitor the small changes that creep across that precious countenance with the passing days.
i am rambling... i've been given another chance to be a mother in this lifetime and each experience, with mikka and kimi, has been truly life-affirming.
thank you, mikka and kimi, for blessing my life and S's, for being our precious children, for forming our little family of four. i love you both, your father above all. :)
perhaps i am not asking the right question here. after all, i am not trying to introduce some kind of debate on the pro's and con's of one type of delivery over the other; i think it is pretty much obvious that if no complications ever existed in the world, no one would think of a cesarean section anyway. but i discount here the kind of woman who does not wish to experience the excruciating vaginal tearing brought on by the relentless pushing of the child down the birth canal, or an episiotomy, and think that the smiley cut on the lower part of the abdomen is the "less evil cut", as it were.
perhaps what i want to ask is, after you have experienced both kinds of deliveries, what can possibly go through your mind and heart following such experiences?
so i zone in on my own personal experiences once again and have realised that in the 5 days of my confinement at the hospital on the hill (whih is barely a 10 minute walk away from our apartment), not only can thoughts flood my mind on the differences of the two methods of delivery, but a swell of emotions as well. i can honestly say that having experienced both kinds of pain associated with each type of delivery, there is a particular pain associated with each, i daresay, and that in the balance, i would still opt for a particular kind of delivery, because of the pain that it can bring. [ano daw? shet, ang labo non a]
i have never wanted to have my abdomen cut. i always had this feeling deep in my gut that my first doctor, the one who had delivered mikka by emergency CS, had not tried out all possible options to bring mikka into the world normally. this intuition was borne out, at last, when i delivered mikka's baby brother, our christmas gift, kimi jesu, at 12:05 pm (just 5 minutes past midday!) last december 25th. you could say that he had arrived on the dot, on schedule, just as projected. just like the christ child whose coming was heralded by angel song and wondrous starlight. it was the same experience of contractions, of waiting out the slow hours for my cervix to dilate, with kimi that i had undergone with mikka. the one big difference was that with kimi, i was wide awake, with only my abdominal area numbed by the pain of the successive contractions by the greatest technological advance in child delivery, the epidural. i will swear by the wonders of this local anaesthesia until the day i die, and if given the chance to promote its use, will do so over and over again. thus, being wide awake, i was aware of everything happening, even feeling when kimi was ready to come, every contraction that told me when to push, and all the attendant tearing that came from pushing out a 3 kilo and 590 gram (nearly 8 lbs) 40-week old baby boy.
there was a rush of blood and something warm when i finally pushed the head out, my knees spread out at 180°, my entire body open to the world. then there he was, blood matted in his hair, slight down on his shoulders, his face pink, his arms and legs wrinkled like an old man's, breathing atop my belly. my first words? "you are the biggest thing i have ever shitted out..." there was a slight pause and expressions of bewilderment on the faces of S, the doctor, and midwife before they all burst into laughter. now why the hell i said that eludes me, really, for i am not a logical person. i remember an ex asking me to close my eyes while he slipped what seemed to be a wedding band on my finger, inscribed with the words, "always remember" on the eve of his departure for new york for university, and my first words of surprise being, "a wedding ring? what for? it's so loose!" if magic was meant to define that moment, then we know why he and i never worked things out, i just didn't have the proper cue words for the angels to tip over their buckets of stardust on that moment of love and commitment.
so back to my kimi... when all the shock and trauma and fatigue of waiting and pushing had passed, all that remained was a sense of wonder and awe. always and forever with me, i believe. thank you, i whispered tremulously to my God, for letting this happen. i knew i could do it the normal way, a tiny voice kept singing over and over in my heart. there kimi lay, breathing on my belly while S prepared to cut his umbilical cord with the help of the midwife (who was wearing this nose stud, and dem, was she pretty). nature is amazing, S smiled at me. my uterus started descending, and when kimi first suckled at my breast, it started to contract. 4 days after delivery, my roommate janet, this sweet woman from england who had given birth to a beautiful blonde baby girl, matilda, told me, "you look very slim already! your belly has gotten very small so quickly." perhaps i had taken this phenomenon for granted, because i had breastfed mikka, too, and his constant suckling made my uterus contract in a week's time. by the time i was released from the hospital yesterday, kimi had taken in all the colostrum meant for him and was already controlling the ducts of my breasts with his hunger cycle. it hurts, that initial suckle from a hungry newborn, but something i will never exchange for anything in the world.
if anything, breast milk is my one great gift to mikka and kimi, to have given them something that will be with them for the rest of their lives. with my milk, i hope to free them from the usual illnesses of infancy that formula milk cannot shield them from, i hope to help them in developing their digestive and respiratory systems so that their toilet training goes smoothly and they need not suffer from primary complexes or baby asthma... also, the bond between myself and my sons is irreplaceable. even if i were the stinkiest mama this part of the universe, there is at least one person (now two in my case) who will know my odour instinctively, who can find me on the darkest night by smell alone, and be reassured by the presence of that smell, be it stink or offal. hehehe i couldn't help it...
i see that little face pressed against my breast at least 8 times a day, and am able to monitor the small changes that creep across that precious countenance with the passing days.
i am rambling... i've been given another chance to be a mother in this lifetime and each experience, with mikka and kimi, has been truly life-affirming.
thank you, mikka and kimi, for blessing my life and S's, for being our precious children, for forming our little family of four. i love you both, your father above all. :)
16.12.05
panganay moments
1. He's counting. i mean, he finally has mastered the concept that there is a one-to-one correspondence between a number and its object, so that when he counts his fingers, he can show me 6 fingers when asked for 6 fingers. he can count his clementine pieces without recounting the same pieces again and assigning it more than one number. he mastered this a month ago, but i can't help it, i'm still tickled pink by his breakthrough.
2. He knows his oppositions in terms of space. Above vs below. Right vs left. Inside vs outside. Black vs white. To be honest, he started mastering this at age 2, so when we had a parent-teacher conference two months ago, I couldn’t help but feel damn proud when his teacher told us that mikka is advanced for his age in terms of his counting skills, identication of letters, numbers, and colours. He knows animals his father taught him, he watches national geographic channel, bbc, and cnn and can identify the channel logos. Not only that, he can also identify the logos of Thalys, ICE, and local Belgian IC trains. He knows if we’re doing our groceries at Delhaize, Carrefour, or GB by simply looking at the signages of the stores. He’s fooled quite a few of his uncles at our Saturday gatherings, making them believe he can actually read. Two weeks ago, he was reading the digital display on the VCR and he identified the date, saying, “it’s 2006!” and it was. I glowed. Just that morning, mikka and I had a lesson in identifying numbers, from 10s to 100s to 1000s, and he was already applying it that evening. As for telling time, I can only teach him how to identify the hour on the hour time, simply saying, “every time the minute hand (he does know the differences among the hour, minute, and second hands on our wall clock) is on 12, it’s always an ‘o’clock’.” At this point, I can’t expect him to transform the numbers 1-12 on the clock into the minute equivalents yet. As far as he knows, those are only numbers 1-12, and not 60 minutes. That will come, but not yet.
3. He’s improving with his colouring and writing skills. I can’t get over it. To distract him from the Season 3 DVDs of ‘Alias’ S and I are avidly watching before our Sunday deadline (time is so short and it’s a great and suspenseful season! Sydney vs Lauren, talk about hot spy chicks!), I sat him down to a colouring practice session which evolved into a writing session as well. after months of seeing him bring home school work with haphazard colouring, mikka has gotten quite the hang of colouring within boundaries, so that his pictures now look neater and more… identifiable. Then out of the blue, he says, “mama, I want to write the letters I-C-E. (he’s an avid fan of the German ICE trains which we have ridden twice, the first when we went to hanau last year, and the second when we visited cologne last September). So I made him write with a blue marker on one of the pages. Grasping the marker awkwardly, I could see that he had an idea of how the C should curve, and the need to attach three horizontal parallel lines to complete his letter E. the letter I must be the easiest thing to draw so there was no difficulty for him there. Then using some of the techniques of “positive praise” that super nanny jo keeps impressing in her tutorials, I saw mikka glow bloom and thrive every time I exclaimed “excellent! You’re a great colouring boy! Woohoo!” in the beginning it was mostly theatre on my part but when I saw him struggling to write his letters on his own initiative, and his colouring showing more control, I couldn’t help but let my excitement get the better of me. The first time he showed me his coloured cow, I fervently wrote the date on the bottom of the page and ran to S with the obra maestra, gushing like crazy. At the end of our colouring and writing session, mikka was strutting around the apartment, chest puffed out, stride filled with so much confidence, while S and I laughed at his newfound sense of new learning. To the point na nga that he wants to draw and draw more, kahit pagod na ako!
Nothing really puffs up a mother’s heart more than seeing her own child blossom beneath her gaze… now if I can only think of ways to help him develop better motor skills with the scissors, because that’s what his teacher told me I could help him with at home… and in this department, I really am at a loss because I don’t know how to impart such skills to him! And by the way, I was a poor student of art in my student days. Partly due to my lack of self confidence and the trauma of having an ex-boyfriend’s mom as my art teacher, who I one day discovered had told my close friends, “lara sucks in art, I don’t know why I even bother to encourage her!” and I was part of the yearbook staff that did the layouting, and she was the moderator of that “division”. I don’t think I will ever recover from that stigma; the recollection of her plastic smile as she encouraged me with what I thought were super creative ideas while deep inside she was recoiling in horror at my work.
Which is why it takes a lot of effort on my part to really buckle down and do art work with mikka. In the beginning, S told me, after I told him exasperatedly that I couldn’t draw the planes and trains mikka demanded of me, “it doesn’t matter if you can draw it or not, dear, what matters to mikka is that you’re working with him. So even if you create these funny looking objects, just do the best you can and you’ll see, it makes mikka happy because you’re with him.” Of course I have seen the wisdom of his advice, but recently, it’s gotten a little comic when mikka tells me, “mama, that doesn’t look right, the train should be bigger.” Reminds me of the time I tried to draw the setting of a short story I was taking up with my freshman literature class years back… my students, after several minutes of trying to decipher my misshapen cows and horses, chorused, “ma’am, here’s aaron, he can really draw, maybe he can draw instead…” and since that day, I have always asked my classes, “who can draw and give me a hand?” I do so chuckle at the memory. I have crazy students --- and son!
2. He knows his oppositions in terms of space. Above vs below. Right vs left. Inside vs outside. Black vs white. To be honest, he started mastering this at age 2, so when we had a parent-teacher conference two months ago, I couldn’t help but feel damn proud when his teacher told us that mikka is advanced for his age in terms of his counting skills, identication of letters, numbers, and colours. He knows animals his father taught him, he watches national geographic channel, bbc, and cnn and can identify the channel logos. Not only that, he can also identify the logos of Thalys, ICE, and local Belgian IC trains. He knows if we’re doing our groceries at Delhaize, Carrefour, or GB by simply looking at the signages of the stores. He’s fooled quite a few of his uncles at our Saturday gatherings, making them believe he can actually read. Two weeks ago, he was reading the digital display on the VCR and he identified the date, saying, “it’s 2006!” and it was. I glowed. Just that morning, mikka and I had a lesson in identifying numbers, from 10s to 100s to 1000s, and he was already applying it that evening. As for telling time, I can only teach him how to identify the hour on the hour time, simply saying, “every time the minute hand (he does know the differences among the hour, minute, and second hands on our wall clock) is on 12, it’s always an ‘o’clock’.” At this point, I can’t expect him to transform the numbers 1-12 on the clock into the minute equivalents yet. As far as he knows, those are only numbers 1-12, and not 60 minutes. That will come, but not yet.
3. He’s improving with his colouring and writing skills. I can’t get over it. To distract him from the Season 3 DVDs of ‘Alias’ S and I are avidly watching before our Sunday deadline (time is so short and it’s a great and suspenseful season! Sydney vs Lauren, talk about hot spy chicks!), I sat him down to a colouring practice session which evolved into a writing session as well. after months of seeing him bring home school work with haphazard colouring, mikka has gotten quite the hang of colouring within boundaries, so that his pictures now look neater and more… identifiable. Then out of the blue, he says, “mama, I want to write the letters I-C-E. (he’s an avid fan of the German ICE trains which we have ridden twice, the first when we went to hanau last year, and the second when we visited cologne last September). So I made him write with a blue marker on one of the pages. Grasping the marker awkwardly, I could see that he had an idea of how the C should curve, and the need to attach three horizontal parallel lines to complete his letter E. the letter I must be the easiest thing to draw so there was no difficulty for him there. Then using some of the techniques of “positive praise” that super nanny jo keeps impressing in her tutorials, I saw mikka glow bloom and thrive every time I exclaimed “excellent! You’re a great colouring boy! Woohoo!” in the beginning it was mostly theatre on my part but when I saw him struggling to write his letters on his own initiative, and his colouring showing more control, I couldn’t help but let my excitement get the better of me. The first time he showed me his coloured cow, I fervently wrote the date on the bottom of the page and ran to S with the obra maestra, gushing like crazy. At the end of our colouring and writing session, mikka was strutting around the apartment, chest puffed out, stride filled with so much confidence, while S and I laughed at his newfound sense of new learning. To the point na nga that he wants to draw and draw more, kahit pagod na ako!
Nothing really puffs up a mother’s heart more than seeing her own child blossom beneath her gaze… now if I can only think of ways to help him develop better motor skills with the scissors, because that’s what his teacher told me I could help him with at home… and in this department, I really am at a loss because I don’t know how to impart such skills to him! And by the way, I was a poor student of art in my student days. Partly due to my lack of self confidence and the trauma of having an ex-boyfriend’s mom as my art teacher, who I one day discovered had told my close friends, “lara sucks in art, I don’t know why I even bother to encourage her!” and I was part of the yearbook staff that did the layouting, and she was the moderator of that “division”. I don’t think I will ever recover from that stigma; the recollection of her plastic smile as she encouraged me with what I thought were super creative ideas while deep inside she was recoiling in horror at my work.
Which is why it takes a lot of effort on my part to really buckle down and do art work with mikka. In the beginning, S told me, after I told him exasperatedly that I couldn’t draw the planes and trains mikka demanded of me, “it doesn’t matter if you can draw it or not, dear, what matters to mikka is that you’re working with him. So even if you create these funny looking objects, just do the best you can and you’ll see, it makes mikka happy because you’re with him.” Of course I have seen the wisdom of his advice, but recently, it’s gotten a little comic when mikka tells me, “mama, that doesn’t look right, the train should be bigger.” Reminds me of the time I tried to draw the setting of a short story I was taking up with my freshman literature class years back… my students, after several minutes of trying to decipher my misshapen cows and horses, chorused, “ma’am, here’s aaron, he can really draw, maybe he can draw instead…” and since that day, I have always asked my classes, “who can draw and give me a hand?” I do so chuckle at the memory. I have crazy students --- and son!
9.12.05
another astrud moment
there is this one song of astrud i simply love with these lyrics:
who can i turn to when nobody needs me?
my heart wants to know
and so i must go where destiny leads me
with no star to guide me
and no one beside me
i'll go on my own and after the day
the darkness will hide me
and maybe tomorrow
i'll find what i'm after
i'll throw off my sorrow
beg, steal and borrow
my share of laughter
with you i could learn to begin on a new day
but who can i turn to if you turn away?
i used to sing this when i was single and S had not yet come into my life and transformed it into this colourful and meaningful tapestry of what true joy is. in so many ways, S has stilled my heart from so many traumas of the past but some things never go away, either.
here's one for the books: who can you turn to when your own flesh and blood spurn you? perhaps it is folly on my part to believe that i can let my hair loose in the presence of people i grew up with, with whom my DNA pattern is practically similar, hoping that since we're all past the age of 30, some unpredictable factors can come into play and hopefully, be forgiven?
in the tv series LOST, locke has resigned himself to a life on the island, isolated, apart from the life he knew, while other people like michael want nothing more than to get back the life they used to have so that they can forge a new tomorrow, their hearts always filled with hope.
in many ways, i am trapped between the wishes of michael and locke, and after a very revealing exchange with people i love over cyberspace, i realised that maybe, just maybe, the time has come for me to cross over to locke's philosophy and forget that i did have a past, that i did have a dream of some day belonging, of some day no longer having to be KSP with my own family, of some day no longer having to bear yet another moment the debilitating stereotypes of my childhood.
it is one thing to idealise relationships, and another to come face to face with certain truths, such as: no matter how much you change, no matter how far you've come, no matter how much you have gained in years and wisdom, the very people you love and wish to share all your life's discoveries, your own family, can be the ones who will not see your gains, who will choose to see only what they want to see, and forever box you into their impressions and opinions of you from time long gone.
if there is one thing my being in belgium has taught me, it is this: that family is important, even if it hurts to reach out to people who will not reach back to you across the miles, not even the cyber miles. i refuse to believe that this is payback time for sins of the past because if there's one thing i want to break in my family history, it's all the shit of previous generations being handed down to us, draped over us like a default hole-ridden ozone layer about which we can do nothing. right now i'm licking my wounds from the rejection dealt me by my own brothers and sister, but i know that this, too, will pass.
i'm in an island, cast out at sea, true, but i'm not Lost, not like locke and the other passengers on that ill-fated oceanic flight from sydney to los angeles. i know from where i have come, i know where i am right now, and i do NOT know where i will eventually end up, but i am not afraid of the journey before me.
there is a weight in my chest right now, because i would like to share my pain with others, and my first choice is to share it with my siblings, but if they will not be there for me, then as the cliché goes, if a door closes somewhere, god opens a window elsewhere. and in just a matter of hours, little peepholes have opened not just a crack but wide open, casting warm sunlight on my wet cheeks and teasing me with a view of beautiful blue skies.
the path before me lies half in mist, half in sunshine. each unturned stone shivers with promise and the chill snaking its way beneath my scarf promises pockets of joy yet to discover, even if it means being on my own. sometimes, all you need is the rest of the world to realise that family can be just a construct we can tie around an oak tree for posterity.
so who can i turn to if you turn away? the answer is not clear-cut but i can see it basking in the soft winter glow: there is someone out there who loves you, and that's all that matters. i can feel his hand massaging my heart gently and already my life is settling nicely into a new groove. for yet another adventure.
who can i turn to when nobody needs me?
my heart wants to know
and so i must go where destiny leads me
with no star to guide me
and no one beside me
i'll go on my own and after the day
the darkness will hide me
and maybe tomorrow
i'll find what i'm after
i'll throw off my sorrow
beg, steal and borrow
my share of laughter
with you i could learn to begin on a new day
but who can i turn to if you turn away?
i used to sing this when i was single and S had not yet come into my life and transformed it into this colourful and meaningful tapestry of what true joy is. in so many ways, S has stilled my heart from so many traumas of the past but some things never go away, either.
here's one for the books: who can you turn to when your own flesh and blood spurn you? perhaps it is folly on my part to believe that i can let my hair loose in the presence of people i grew up with, with whom my DNA pattern is practically similar, hoping that since we're all past the age of 30, some unpredictable factors can come into play and hopefully, be forgiven?
in the tv series LOST, locke has resigned himself to a life on the island, isolated, apart from the life he knew, while other people like michael want nothing more than to get back the life they used to have so that they can forge a new tomorrow, their hearts always filled with hope.
in many ways, i am trapped between the wishes of michael and locke, and after a very revealing exchange with people i love over cyberspace, i realised that maybe, just maybe, the time has come for me to cross over to locke's philosophy and forget that i did have a past, that i did have a dream of some day belonging, of some day no longer having to be KSP with my own family, of some day no longer having to bear yet another moment the debilitating stereotypes of my childhood.
it is one thing to idealise relationships, and another to come face to face with certain truths, such as: no matter how much you change, no matter how far you've come, no matter how much you have gained in years and wisdom, the very people you love and wish to share all your life's discoveries, your own family, can be the ones who will not see your gains, who will choose to see only what they want to see, and forever box you into their impressions and opinions of you from time long gone.
if there is one thing my being in belgium has taught me, it is this: that family is important, even if it hurts to reach out to people who will not reach back to you across the miles, not even the cyber miles. i refuse to believe that this is payback time for sins of the past because if there's one thing i want to break in my family history, it's all the shit of previous generations being handed down to us, draped over us like a default hole-ridden ozone layer about which we can do nothing. right now i'm licking my wounds from the rejection dealt me by my own brothers and sister, but i know that this, too, will pass.
i'm in an island, cast out at sea, true, but i'm not Lost, not like locke and the other passengers on that ill-fated oceanic flight from sydney to los angeles. i know from where i have come, i know where i am right now, and i do NOT know where i will eventually end up, but i am not afraid of the journey before me.
there is a weight in my chest right now, because i would like to share my pain with others, and my first choice is to share it with my siblings, but if they will not be there for me, then as the cliché goes, if a door closes somewhere, god opens a window elsewhere. and in just a matter of hours, little peepholes have opened not just a crack but wide open, casting warm sunlight on my wet cheeks and teasing me with a view of beautiful blue skies.
the path before me lies half in mist, half in sunshine. each unturned stone shivers with promise and the chill snaking its way beneath my scarf promises pockets of joy yet to discover, even if it means being on my own. sometimes, all you need is the rest of the world to realise that family can be just a construct we can tie around an oak tree for posterity.
so who can i turn to if you turn away? the answer is not clear-cut but i can see it basking in the soft winter glow: there is someone out there who loves you, and that's all that matters. i can feel his hand massaging my heart gently and already my life is settling nicely into a new groove. for yet another adventure.
26.11.05
advent begins
tomorrow the church officially begins the 3-week liturgical period of advent, the time of waiting for christ's coming.
in two days, baby center will tell me i'm 36 weeks along. kimi jesu will be full term by then, and we --- S, mikka, and myself --- have a 4-week, plus or minus, advent for the newest member of our family.
thank god he'll be born in europe, where people will not wonder too much why he has a "girly" name. i'm hoping that there will be more who will recognise that his and his older brother's names derive from formula one finnish race car drivers, mika hakkinen and kimi raikkonen. if i have yet another child... let's say, a girl... maybe i'll take the name of that american babe making waves in race car driving, danica patrick. (thanks, jing, for the update! as of dec 9 2005)
this is the greatest gift of all. kimi, we're waiting.
in two days, baby center will tell me i'm 36 weeks along. kimi jesu will be full term by then, and we --- S, mikka, and myself --- have a 4-week, plus or minus, advent for the newest member of our family.
thank god he'll be born in europe, where people will not wonder too much why he has a "girly" name. i'm hoping that there will be more who will recognise that his and his older brother's names derive from formula one finnish race car drivers, mika hakkinen and kimi raikkonen. if i have yet another child... let's say, a girl... maybe i'll take the name of that american babe making waves in race car driving, danica patrick. (thanks, jing, for the update! as of dec 9 2005)
this is the greatest gift of all. kimi, we're waiting.
2.11.05
a night with chito tagle
down-to-earth. charming. warm. intelligent. sensible. perceptive.
being with bishop chito tagle of imus, cavite, last night at a gathering of pinoy students and their friends was a very pleasant experience for me.
plus it reminds me that there really ARE cool priests.
i really like him. ever since he officiated a mass for us at our JVP 10-year reunion 4 years ago, i have been hooked. what a great man!
blessing, indeed.
being with bishop chito tagle of imus, cavite, last night at a gathering of pinoy students and their friends was a very pleasant experience for me.
plus it reminds me that there really ARE cool priests.
i really like him. ever since he officiated a mass for us at our JVP 10-year reunion 4 years ago, i have been hooked. what a great man!
blessing, indeed.
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